


Hellfire

by TurboTavia



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bandits & Outlaws, Character Death, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gangs, Minor Violence, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Other, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pre-Canon, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Trust Issues, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-02-27 09:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18736114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurboTavia/pseuds/TurboTavia
Summary: { This work contains characters belonging to myself and others, as well as game characters featured pre-game and in the online version. It takes place in 1895 and may not entirely follow the game's real timeline and character history. }Holden Dreer is a man lost in his own world, alone and without fear. He once gave up a life that would have made him happy and rich to be with a friend whom he trusted and cared for. But things don't always go to plan, and he soon found himself roaming the plains with only a horse at his side and a bag full of memories he only wanted to bury. A ruthless killer on the run from the law no matter where he tread. But maybe it wasn't all so bad?





	1. El Paso; 1895

**Author's Note:**

> I may be adding more tags as I go along, depending on new characters I decide to add along the way. I am also open to suggestions for potential situations, so feel free to private message me. :)
> 
> For now, this is just the introduction.

▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓  **Hellfire** ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

* * *

 

**El Paso**

“P-Please sir, I have a family.”

Looking up beyond the barrel of the gun were the glazed eyes of a sorrowful soul. All it would take was the flex of a finger and the echo of an explosion to extinguish the life they possessed. Bang. That’s all it would take. And he would drop to the floor in the insignificant pile the shooter thought him to be – nothing more than a corpse to feed the undergrowth and a place to deposit a bullet. Was it worth it though? He had purchased these bullets with his own money, rather than snagging them from an unsuspecting victim as he normally did. Surely a life held more worth than the cents he had spent on a few pieces of lead and brass..

The thud of the body and bang filled the silence simultaneously. Maybe a life had had more worth at a different time. But things had changed. He clicked the revolver into its holster and hacked a spit to the ground, inches from the face of a man who wasn’t granted the time to allow the light to drain from his eyes.

Blood pooled in the dirt as clumps of grass were kicked up and hoofbeats disappeared into the distance.


	2. Don't Fence Me In; 1894

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this part completed as soon as possible so I could concentrate on the main story I have planned. I have also added some new tags and characters to the list. :)
> 
> This is the prologue.

* * *

 

**Don't Fence Me In**

The crackling of the fire possessed an odd sense of domesticity not many were familiar with in New Hanover. It was perhaps more common to prefer the comfort of a soft bed or the safety of a locked door over the most basic of human inventions. And yet nothing calmed Holden Dreer’s nerves more than the warmth of the embers. Perhaps the company of his dearest friend came close though. He rested the bottle in his hand on his knee and watched the dots of glowing light meld into the star-filled sky, a cool breeze passing over the back of his neck.

He shivered.

A calloused hand brushed the exposed skin as lightly as a feather, as though unsure whether to make the connection between neck and fingertips. His moustache twitched as he smiled and leaned back into the touch, exhaling a low breath as he did.

Under the protection of the hand, Holden certainly felt safer than he could in any hotel room or jail cell, depending on the town they visited. As a rare treat, they had set up camp in the Cumberland forest, just north of Valentine, a town they had yet to displease and which had until now welcomed them and their weekly hauls with open arms and wallets full of cash. Not to be pick-pocketed, of course. That was below them. The couple took pride in hunting for their wages, saving the best kills for evenings like this one - to enjoy under the stars.

Holden stole a glance of his mute partner. His eyes were bright and full of wonder as he lolled his head back to bathe himself in moonlight and watch the universe move around him. He gave off an almost ethereal aura, the moon reflecting in his eyes, and Holden’s heart swelled at the idea of his best friend being at a complete peace. He turned his head and rested his lips on the fingers, moustache brushing the knuckles, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a smile cross Hanschen’s face.

With his stomach being full and his heart being warm, Holden felt content enough to let his eyes droop and allowed himself to be taken away into a realm beyond wonder – with smoke in his lungs and the scent of his lover in his nostrils.

 

 

 .・。.・゜✯

 

 

How many hours had passed? A shooting pain across his hip indicated he had fallen asleep in a less-than-desirable position and he grunted as he straightened his back. Palming his eyes the camp faded into view, the fire having long died down. The morning sun bathed everything in a cool, early spring light and the birds were awake and twittering over the sound of a nearby babbling brook. Despite all of the noise, everything felt eerily silent and Holden cast his gaze around the camp.

Where was Hanschen?

With strenuous effort he managed to pull himself to his feet and slip on his boots before scanning the camp once more. There wasn’t a sign of Hanschen. His boots were gone, and after a glance at the hitching posts where Octavius stood idly, ears and eyes drooped, so was Magee.

Perhaps he had simply headed into town without letting Holden know. But that wasn’t really like him.

As Holden paced, pondering the situation, he heard a crunch under his boot. Lifting it, he came face-to-face with a squirrel skull, now broken, threaded onto a tasselled charm. If it were possible, his heart would have stopped then and there. He knew that charm – it was the mark of their most distrusted enemy. Ollie’s Boys; a gang that roamed West Elizabeth and had on more than one occasion attempted to split up the Dreers.

Holden’s blood began to boil. If Ollie or his group of outlaws had hurt a hair on Hanschen’s head he would never be able to forgive himself. How had he not heard them coming? He should have been prepared.

As fast as he was able to, he tore down the camp and packed away their belongings before throwing himself into the saddle. He would get Hanschen back home, even if it killed him.

 

 .・。.・゜✯

 

 

The afternoon sun was hot despite being so far north. Octavius stood a few yards away drinking from Cattail pond as Holden studied a cluster of hoofprints nearby. They were fresh and were the result of maybe three to four horses around half an hour ago. He was close, he knew that.

It seemed odd though. Ollie’s Boys were so rarely found north of Blackwater. What had brought them up here? Surely they hadn’t travelled across two states just to kidnap Hanschen. Even with everything that had happened until now, it wasn’t enough for Ollie to upend his entire gang. It’s not like the Dreers had much to take.

Holden studied the hoofprints again. They were deep and wide. The last he had seen of Ollie’s men they had been riding small-footed desert horses. Either they had replaced their entire herd, which was very unlikely, or they had been up here for longer than he had originally thought. It had been a few months at the least since their last sighting.

Standing again, he made his way over to Octavius, who raised his head and swivelled his ears. His fingers twitched as he is reminded of his concern for Hanschen’s well-being. He will make that bastard pay.

 

 .・。.・゜✯

 

 

A round of laughter split over the crackling of the fire. Somehow this time the fire didn’t comfort Holden as it normally would have. Hanschen was amongst that group somewhere. But he couldn’t just go barrelling in there, guns blazing.

Observing from where he was crouched, he could make out six silhouettes against the firelight. His confidence fizzled out faster than the kindling in their pit. Ollie’s gang had significantly grown in the past few months. It used to just be three of them; Ollie and his two best men Harvey and André. But even from here he could make out a deep bellow of laughter he didn’t recognize as well as the shriek of an insane-sounding woman.

A metallic taste enveloped his tongue. He must have been anxiously chewing his cheek and broken the skin. Shaking his head to concentrate, he slowly began sneaking forwards to hide behind the tent closest to him. There was a chance he could overhear where they were keeping Hanschen.

“Will, you can’t hold your beer for shit,” a moustached man Holden identified as Harvey said, punching the shoulder of a larger man swaying beside him.

“At least I’m holdin’ it an’ not pukin’ it up like you were last night,” Will slurred, swinging his beer bottle. The group laughed.

Ollie, Harvey, André and Will. Who were the other two figures?

Holden teased a peek from behind the tent, but immediately drew his head back in as André threw himself down into the seat just between him and the fire. He held his breath as he retreated to a safer distance again. He would never be able to take on this many men at once. They were all too close together.

A few more minutes passed and the gang shared drunken banter back and forth until Holden scuffed his boot in the dirt and accepted quits for now. He would wait nearby and search the camp for Hanschen after everyone had fallen asleep. It seemed his safest bet. So he leant against a tree, twirling his revolver on his finger as he waited for the laughter and conversation to die down.

 

 .・。.・゜✯

 

 

The snapping of a twig behind him spun Holden on his heel, his gun drawn to meet the face of Hanschen which was flushed with alcohol and still bearing a smile before his eyes met those of Holden, and it dropped. They stared at one-another for a moment or two, the gears in Holden’s head ticking as he examined the face of his dearest friend. He was positively glowing.

Hanschen, despite the shock of seeing Holden, tried his hardest to compose himself and smile again, but his face and the tips of his ears were clearly red at being caught. It slowly clicked in Holden’s mind.

And then, for the first time in his life, Hanschen opened his mouth to speak.

And Holden filled it with a bullet.


	3. Armadillo; 1895

* * *

 

**Armadillo**

He’s never had the chance to run solo before and the isolation seems to be taking its toll on him. He hasn’t spoken a word in several days now and his tongue feels hard and dry, much like the dirt beneath his fingernails and burning sores into the lids of his eyes. There’s just no being rid of this uncomfortable feeling.

He wipes his hands down his trousers which are equally covered in dust.

Just a couple more hours and the sun will set on this godforsaken pit of a town, driving the innocent into the confines of their houses and attracting those less so to the saloon and streets. Just a couple more hours and his pockets will be overflowing.

For now, Holden rests his cigarette on his lip, watching passers-by from under the brim of his hat, not making eye contact with anyone from where he leans against the general store wall.

The shopkeeper has since given up asking him to move, so he feels no rush.

It’d been a shit day so far. He had been jumped on the road south to Armadillo and in the process lost five dollars’ worth of belongings as well as his only ride out of this hellhole. He clenches his teeth. Those fuckers took Octavius. If he comes across Walton or any of his men, he’ll be sure to skin them alive for that.

Then maybe rob their corpses for good measure.

A ruckus down the street catches his attention and he watches as a large man is thrown from the saloon for rough-housing, stumbling to his hands.

“Yeah, well your whiskey is shit anyway!” the man yells as he drags himself up.

Holden couldn’t make out his face from this distance, but he doesn’t seem the kind of guy to mess with. The bartender had some balls, he’ll give him that. He flicks his cigarette to the dirt and stubs it with a toe, eyeing the man as he sways over. Shit. His hand hovers over his holster and the man’s eyes follow the action.

“Ain’t here for trouble, friend,” he says, hands splayed in front of him. “Just want a smoke is all.”

A moment passes as they study each-other’s expressions before Holden submits and takes out a cigarette before handing it to the man.

“Thanks, partner,” is the response he gets and Holden nods, leaning back against the wall.

He expects the man to leave but he doesn’t, making himself comfortable in the space beside Holden, who in turn frowns. The man grunts as he connects with the wall, lights his cigarette and inhales deeply through his teeth whilst pulling out his gun which he proceeds to clean.

“Piece of shit town,” he says.

Holden says nothing, his tongue too dry and his mind too distracted by a group of riders passing. Nothing worth going after there.

“You from here?” The man eyes Holden from the side who shakes his head, not making eye contact. He huffs. “Not the talkative type are you? Ain’t a problem. I normally don’t talk much either. Not whilst I’m with the gang at least. They do all the talkin’ for me.”

If only that were true for now as well, Holden thinks, still not responding.

The man slips his gun away and takes another drag from his cigarette, gripping it between finger and thumb as he rests his head back against the wall.

“I don’t plan on stayin’ here much longer. Hasn’t been the town we hoped it’d be.”

“What were you hoping?”

The man chuckles. “Oh so you can talk?” He leans forwards onto the railing. “We heard of some gang with big money nearby, but it turned up nothin’. Was just all talk on their part.”

“Walton’s men?”

“Nah, was three bandits a little west of here. Said they hit gold in a job. The jewellery they stole weren’t worth shit though. Turns out this area likes to make fakes.”

Holden’s moustache twitches. So the necklace in his satchel isn’t worth anything then. Great.

“No, I’m not from here,” he says, answering the man’s question from earlier. “Just passing through.”

“Doin’ an awful lot of standin’ around for just passing through.”

He says nothing, examining the man’s back and satchel, seeing if there was anything worth taking. Maybe he’d be able to sweet-talk the man into trusting him. Holden opens his mouth just as another group of riders gallops through town, skidding to a stop in front of them.

“Arthur, my boy, here you are!” a finely dressed man drawls, a smile on his face. “Ms. Grimshaw has caught wind of a job on its way to Coot’s Chapel. Saddle up and meet us outside of town.”

A man just beyond the speaker makes eye contact with Holden for a second, holding him in a dark-eyed gaze, before the group kicks off, leaving nothing but a cluster of hoofprints and a curtain of dust. The man stands straight, dropping his cigarette over the railing.

“Been a pleasure, friend. Appreciate the smoke,” and he is gone.

Holden curses under his breath. Maybe it was for the better though. There must have been at least five of them all together.

So, a dead-end town with nothing but worthless takes and three, presumably now two, gangs to boot. He doesn’t feel like his luck will be changing here anytime soon. But he’s horseless and will need to find a way out of here.

That shouldn’t be too hard however.

An hour later a man is gurgling under his knife, kindly having offered his steed and belongings to Holden – or had he been cursing his name? Holden isn’t sure. But the sentiment is nice regardless. He mounts the horse, checks, and kicks off into the night to Jorge’s Gap to set up camp.


	4. Jorge’s Gap; 1895

* * *

 

**Jorge's Gap**

The cool night air offers an aura of protection, sheltering the campsite from prying eyes and predators. Since having left his home – or rather having been thrown out – Holden has always somehow felt safer out in the open like this, having only the company of the stars and his revolvers. There’s always the risk of being jumped, but at this point Holden has so little to lose and no fear of shooting a gun.

The only sounds filling the warm atmosphere of the camp are the crackling of the fire and the chirping of crickets, calming Holden as he stares into the embers. The flames swirl and dance in a glowing masquerade, reminding him of the endless balls his parents would drag him to and make him participate in after forcing a partner upon him. Mademoiselle Kidwell had not forgiven Holden for abandoning her in front of their families that one night, and the words in her letter had stung worse than the thrashings his father had given him.

Holden lays a sheet in the fire and watches as his bounty poster begins to shrivel, firelight shining in his eyes. They’ve gotten a lot closer recently, having somehow discovered that he’s begun making his way south – last he heard they are looking for him in Tall Trees. It wouldn’t be long before they follow his trail, but Holden doesn’t care too much. Their reference picture is still so badly inaccurate and unflattering, simply because none of his victims have lived to pass it on properly. The law seems inept at capturing the beauty that is his moustache, and Holden is concerned that once they do, he will be forced to shave it off. He strokes it now, eyes still lost in the flames that climb higher until the poster finally disappears into the sparks ascending into the night’s sky and merging with the stars. 1,000$ is a lot of money for a head, and he can’t decide whether he would have paid that much himself in another life. Surely the self-satisfaction that comes with the victory of stopping an outlaw from ravaging the lands would be enough. All the price does is increase the competition, and by this point Holden’s head is like a trophy to be won at the end of a foot race. Just a shame that the runners are dropping like flies. Life is priceless – except for Holden’s it turns out, for his is worth a thousand dollars.

It could be considered flattery. It’s been a long time since anyone has gotten excited at the sight of him. It’s just a shame that their happiness doesn’t seem to last.

A soft snuffling not far beyond the fire assures Holden that his mount has yet to run off, and it snaps him out of his daydream. He takes a moment to blink, then after noticing the dryness of his eyes, he rubs them hard enough to see stars. Suddenly aware of the silence, he sighs. An airy, hearty laughter rings through the back of his mind, one he hasn’t heard in such a long time, and it sends a shiver up his spine and goosebumps emerging on his forearms. The night now feels cold, and Holden draws his knees up to his body and rests his forehead on them, staring into his lap.

Even after everything, even after all of the anger and all of the hatred, Holden can’t help but watch as wet splotches appear on the fabric of his pants.

It shouldn’t be affecting him at all. He got himself into this fucking mess. If he would have just let bygones be bygones with Ollie and his gang, he wouldn’t have gotten so angry and shot the only person he’s ever cared about. He had gone back for Hanschen’s body in the end to give him a proper burial, and the bullet wound had made him sick. Hanschen still looked like himself in a way, if not horribly mangled, and Holden’s heart had split in two that day, knowing that he was responsible. All of his anger has disappeared and Holden was left with a mound of freshly dug earth and a hollow feeling in his chest. Though he sometimes has nights like this, most days Holden passes in a shimmering anger, as though watching the world through a red lens. All he knows is that one of these days that fucker Ollie will pay. Holden will skin him alive and cut off his balls, if he gets the chance. Because no matter how much the thought nags at him, he still blames Ollie. That smooth-talking son-of-a-bitch and his band of drunkards, punching each other for a laugh and daring each other to do stupider and stupider things, landing themselves hefty bounties in three different states.

A hitch in his throat causes Holden to gulp a mouthful of air and he exhales deeply through his nose, eyes closed. This hollow feeling. The only way he can fill it is the split second of absolute terror in a man’s eyes just before Holden pulls the trigger, and that’s just a shot of adrenaline that clears his mind and sends his heart racing. And after the body slumps to the floor, he comes off the high faster than the time it takes for his bullet to leave the barrel, watching the light leave their eyes and their blood pool. When the air is filled with only silence once more, all he feels is a deep regret only satiated by his burying of the bodies and gripping of a beer bottle. And that feeling, the one he feels right now, stays with him for days.

He doesn’t ever go out looking for trouble of this calibre, it just seems to always find him, and Holden is left with the constant guilt and the blood of countless lives on his hands. So much blood… The law isn’t familiar with the exact amount, and frankly neither is he, otherwise his bounty would be a lot higher. Still, being wanted dead or alive is an achievement in itself.

The snap of a twig somewhere behind him makes Holden jump to his feet, a revolver drawn.

“Who’s there?” he chokes into the darkness, trying to adjust his eyes. A dark shape just beyond a nearby cactus shifts and he cocks his gun before repeating with more urgency now, “I said, who’s there?”

The figure edges forwards and Holden can just make out a hand across their waist to reach for a gun and he growls, shuffling on his feet and straightening his aim. He’s in the middle of the desert, a mile or two off the track and though the fire is burning, there’s a low, sandy fog disguising any landscape further than a hundred feet away. He must have been followed, and he is not keen to meet any confrontation. His finger slowly edges back the trigger.

“H--… Help me,” a raspy voice says as the figure stumbles closer.

Holden let’s go of the trigger and watches, a little unsure what to do, as the man comes into view by the light of the fire. All it would take is a flick of his finger. The man is dressed in dark, worn clothing and the hand draped across his front is gripping at his side. It takes a moment to register, but it seems that he’s badly injured. His shirt beneath his jacket is stained with blood. Holden lowers his gun.

When he’s a few feet away the man stops, looking at Holden with beady, bloodshot eyes. He’s breathing heavily and is stood at an awkward angle to compensate for the pain. They stare at each other for a few seconds, the fire crackling in the silence, neither sure whether to make the first move. It’s only then that Holden recognizes the man’s eyes as being those belonging to the man earlier today in Armadillo, riding with that well-dressed fellow, and by the looks of things, something had gone wrong. He’s lanky, his jacket too large for him and his hat dangles in his free hand, revealing a mass of greasy, unruly hair tumbling onto his shoulders.

The look in his eyes is enough for Holden to holster his revolver and he gestures down to his bedroll for the man, who gratefully slumps onto his ass with a grunt, exhaling sharply through his teeth.

“I don’t mean to bother, I just needed a rest,” he says.

Holden walks up to the man and shakes his head as he lowers onto the balls of his feet. The man has lost a lot of blood and he really could do with some real medical attention. But being in the desert meant that his options are Holden or the buzzards. He’s wary to touch the man, so he instead retrieves a clean rag from his bags and douses it in the bottle of strong spirit by his bedroll before offering it to him.

He has killed an endless string of men with more reason to live and with far less on their backs, all without mercy – their pleading words fuelling his rage. So why is it when he looks into the eyes of this nobody bleeding all over his bedroll does he feel pity and not anger? Maybe it’s the terror he can see in them. A terror not induced by himself, but by the fear of dying alone. This man had chosen to risk approaching a stranger no better than the devil himself over a cold, drawn-out death, alone and afraid. And that puts a heavy weight on Holden’s shoulders.

The man takes the rag and presses it to his side, hissing. He takes a moment to let the alcohol work then looks at Holden with a weak, grateful smile and says, “Thanks friend. Another hour and I’d have been a goner.”

Holden shuffles. “What the hell were you doing to get yourself shot?” he asks and the man chuckles.

“The fuckin’ job went ass up.” His eyes are dark and he looks at the ground with a hard look. “Those bastards left me. They’ve never done that before.”

A coyote howls in the distance and the man takes a moment to catch his breath. His forehead is glistening with sweat and his chest is heaving. The bleeding seems to have slowed, but the fight is abandoning him as adrenaline leaves his system and his head begins to slump.

“Just… Just rest, Mr. uh… partner,” Holden says, getting to his feet. He won’t be able to help him any more tonight, so the man will just have to hope that he won’t die during the night – though at least that would save Holden the effort for when he does come to his senses.

The man lowers himself onto his back, a strained noise escaping his lips, and raises his free hand to his forehead. Holden turns to take a seat by the fire. He’s grateful that the man didn’t remark on his tear-stained face, but he feels like a fool regardless. He hears the man settling and exhaling before speaking.

“John. John Marston.”

He turns to offer the motionless body of John a smile and replies, “Holden.”


End file.
